


Letters For The Grave

by gaylock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John is a Mess, Johnlock - Freeform, Letters, M/M, Mycroft is Sweet, Mycroft is a mess, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Mess, Tags to be added, everyone is a mess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-12 17:44:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7943458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylock/pseuds/gaylock





	1. [Post Death: Day 6]

~~Sherlock~~ ,

  
Please. I can't do this. I can't....I just....please.

  
                                                            -J


	2. Post Death: Day 10

~~Sherl~~ ~~Friend~~ S,

  
I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. This is all my fault. I should have....I'm sorry.

  
                                                                                                  -J


	3. Post Death: Day 12

S,

Come back. Come back right now. I....people need you.

                                                                         -J


	4. Post Death: Day 17

S,

Why? My god, why.....how could you? How could you, after all ~~we've~~ you've done,   
after everything ~~we've~~ you've been through, how could you do this ~~to me~~ ~~to us~~ to yourself?

                                                                                                                        -J


	5. Post Death: Day 22

S,

I am so angry at you, so god damned angry. How dare you do this, ~~to me,~~ to your brother,   
to your friends? You had no right. You better come back, because you deserve a good punch   
in the face for putting us all through this. God, I'm so fucking mad at you right now! 

                                                                                                                              -J


	6. Post Death: Day 23

S,

 ~~I miss you~~ We miss you. We need you here, England needs you here.   
Oh god, please come back. ~~Just come home, for me~~ Please.

                                                                                                 -J


	7. Post Death: Day 29

S,

I hate you. God, I hate you so much for this. I haven't stopped crying, I've been ~~having  
nightmares about it~~ incapable of sleeping ~~since you-~~ since that day. 

                                                                                                                -J


	8. Post Death: Day 32

S,

I can't do this anymore. It's too hard, ~~it's killing me~~ it's not helping. I can't even....I just wish....I   
never told you how much ~~I care~~ ~~need~~ ~~want~~ rely on you. But. It's too late now. So. ~~I guess this is~~   
~~goodbye~~ ~~I never got to say goodby~~ ~~I just wanted to say goodb~~ This is the last letter, the last one.   
I....yeah. Nevermind. 

                                                                                                                                    -J


	9. Post Death: Day 59

Dear Friend,

Today I tried to talk to Ella for the first time in months.

You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm, there were times I didn't   
even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and   
the most human... human being that I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince   
me that you told me a lie. That's...So. There. I was so alone, and I owe you so much,   
but, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock,   
for me. Don't... be... dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this.

There, that's what I needed to say. Ella told me that writing this letter would help me,   
so, yeah. Here's to hoping. I, ah, don't really know why I thought this would work, to be   
honest. I guess I was just hoping that- well, that it would work, and I would stop... stop   
hurting. You'll never read this, I know that, but I guess I just needed to say it. Say that   
I ~~care~~ ~~cared~~ care about you, and that I miss you ~~with all of my heart~~ a lot. So. I'll just,   
um, leave this here on your grave, and go then. 

I'm sorry. I am so sorry.

                                                                                                        Goodbye,  
                                                                                                         John Watson 


	10. Post Death: Day 59 [continued]

John Watson, formerly a resident of 221b Baker Street, wrote out this final letter and made two copies; one for the grave, and one for the box. He then took up his cane and coat and made his way to the black headstone which somehow managed to convey absolutely nothing about the graves occupant, despite the engraved words. John stared for a moment at the shining black surface and felt a hatred he hadn't known he possessed bubble up, only to be drowned out by the sudden feeling of hopelessness that always plagued him during his visits to this desolate location. John pulled the white envelope from his coat pocket and placed it down in front of the headstone, before touching the carved S lightly with one finger. He recited the contents of the letter as if the graves occupant would hear him as if the dead were capable of listening at all. John pulled away, his legs unsteady, and leaned heavily on his cane.

"Goodbye."

Later that same day, John Watson made one last trip to his former residence on Baker Street. He took the longest and most roundabout route so that he could see the scene where it all happened just once more. St. Bartholomew's was once a place of happy memories for John; happy school days, friends and medicine, rugby and first love. And later on, after his days in the army, St. Bartholomew's became the place where John's future started.

And then, much later on, after years of happy adventure, St. Bartholomew's became a place of death. John wanted to see it, just once more, so that he could remember not only the bad, but the good as well. And once he was done looking, he directed his cab to 221b.

John's uneven, slow steps rang out in the still air of the abandoned flat, his cane flinging dust particles up from the floorboards and the carpets. John didn't bother to glance around himself as he made his way through the flat; he had one specific destination in mind. When he found himself in the bedroom, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. The walk through hadn't been far, but each step he took was more difficult than the last, and each moment the air seemed to get thinner. He could feel his depression and hopelessness pressing down on him, constricting his lungs, and John knew that he didn't have much time before he would have to leave. He pulled another white envelope from his coat pocket, identical to the one he had placed on the grave, and moved to place it inside the wooden box which sat on the center of the bed. Inside were bundles of other letters, some in envelopes and some not. they ranged in size from small to smaller, and none were as large as the one he placed on top at that moment.

He smoothed down the blanket on the bed, before closing the lid of the box and moving as quickly out of the room as was possible. It seemed to take no time at all for John to remove himself from the flat, whereas it had seemed to take all the time in the world for him to enter it. Once he was once again standing in the cold London air out on the streets, John pulled his coat more tightly around his body and began the long, slow walk to the subway terminal, where he would make his way to the train station and catch the nine-o-clock train out of London, never to look back.

Mrs. Hudson had begged him to stay in the city, even if it meant he had to live across town. But John knew he wouldn't last there, not even for a week longer. The city was too much like his friend; fast and chaotic and brilliant. And so it was, that on that evening, exactly fifty-nine days after what the papers had called The Reichenbach Fall, John Watson, formerly of 221b Baker Street found himself on the train out of London, far away from his past and all the pain that it held.

Little did he know, that at that exact moment a shadow that shouldn't have existed wove its way through the abandoned flat until it found itself in front of the wooden box full of letters. The shadow stood inside the room, breathing in the dust particles that only hours before John had shifted around and sent floating slowly through the air. He stared at the box for long moments, not moving anything but his eyes. He knew what was inside, or at least he could give a very good guess. He also knew that despite the letters being addressed to him, that the sender had never intended for him to read or receive them. But he was a curious creature by nature, and generally dismissive of the wishes of others; so it was with only the slightest hesitation that he opened the box and extracted the envelopes and folded papers within. He placed them safely inside his coats large inside pocket, before extracting a single sheet of very expensive cream coloured parchment from the side pocket of his coat. He rolled it gently up and tied it with a piece of blue ribbon, before dropping it in the box and closing the lid.

He stepped back and let his eyes roam the rest of the room, making absolutely sure that he hadn't disturbed any of the dust. He gave the box one last look before turning away to make his way back out of the flat, his steps light enough that the dust on the floor wasn't disturbed at all. He flew down the stairs and out the door, making sure to pull his collar higher and keep his head down, though the street was dark and empty enough that it was unlikely anyone would notice him. He was a shadow once again, a quick sliver of blackness moving through the night, stepping into an equally black car and driving silently off, unseen and unheard.

He was Sherlock Holmes, former occupant of 221b Baker Street, and he was very much alive.


	11. Sherlock's Letter

Dear John,

I hope this letter finds you well, though I know you will not read it for years yet.   
I watched you leave London today and have timed this accordingly. If all goes to plan,   
you won't receive this for another year and a half, by which time I will have completed   
my mission and we will be together once again. I must apologize, for in the placing of this   
letter I have had to empty the box. I know you had never planned on my getting to read your   
letters, John, but needs must. And no, you may not be angry about it; they were addressed to   
me, after all!

I would like to take this chance to say that I am sorry, I am so very sorry. You of all people   
did not deserve this. I had not thought of what my death would do to you, only of the joy my return   
would bring, and for that, I apologize. I also apologize for not telling you sooner, though I knew it would   
be impossible for you to believably lie about my supposed death had you known the truth. And I can  
not have my cover blown, John. Lives depend on it. Mrs. Hudson's. Lestrade's. Yours. So you see,   
what I did was necessary; awful, yes. Sad, undoubtedly. But necessary. And I know you blame yourself,   
but please do not. It could have been through no fault of your own that I had to do this. I also know that   
you blame Mycroft. And though he did give Moriarty pertinent information about me, he was only   
doing as I bid him too. I know you won't understand, and I can't explain it all to you here, but   
please know that it was no more his fault than it was yours.

What you said, at the grave this morning...that was good. Thank you. I am glad that at some point   
in the future I will be able to grant you your wish. I would also have you know that I left the   
letter you placed on my grave. Hopefully, the whole process has allowed you to find some closure,   
although you know I don't put much stock in the words of psychologists. 

And John? I too am sorry.

                                                                                                            Your friend,  
                                                                                                             Sherlock Holmes


	12. Little Brother

On the anniversary of the supposed death of his brother, Mycroft Holmes found himself on the doorstep of 221b. The evening sky was dark and cloudy, heavy with the promise of rain, and although he knew his brother was alive and well, Mycroft couldn't help but feel the pain and black depression of their morose facade seeping in. Especially on this day of all days.

He stood staring at the door, the black lettering, and the knocker which was perfectly centered. It was the knocker which threw him off and made his mind spin, and though Mycroft's obsessive-compulsive disorder told him to leave it, he couldn't. So, as he opened the door to step into the flat, Mycroft pushed the knocker off-center, just as it would have been had Sherlock still been in residence. Mycroft felt a sense of validation, knowing that despite his little brother not being near, the world he had ruled and run in was still full of his uniqueness. 

The flat was silent and empty, Mrs. Hudson being at her bi-weekly bridge club meeting (it was mostly a gossip group, as Mycroft knew from his infrequent check-ups). So it was with no fanfare that he made his way up the steps and into the abandoned flat of John H. Watson and Sherlock Holmes. His steps were light and soft and noiseless, and his breaths were inaudible. In fact, the flat was so absolutely silent, that Mycroft felt the need to make some sound. He cleared his throat gently, but it seemed that the heavy silence just sucked the sound up and made it so there may not have been any sound at all. He walked forwards slowly, every item and momento seemingly screaming his brother's name. The paint on the wall, the bullet holes, the silk slipper on the mantle; they were all remnants of Sherlock, and it seemed to Mycroft that they were all just waiting for his return.

It wasn't until he reached his little brother's room that Mycroft truly felt his feeling of depression rise up. The room was immaculate, as only Sherlock would have kept it. Much like his mind, though unlike the rest of his flat, Sherlock felt the need to keep his personal space as tidy as possible. He always had, and as Mycroft stood there just outside of the perfectly ordered (though somewhat dusty) bedroom, he realised what was making him so upset.

The room was untouched. It was, in fact, completely and exactly like it had been on the day Sherlock "died". Other than the wooden box sitting on the bed, there was no trace of anyone else other than his brother. The room itself was overwhelming, especially to someone with Mycroft's sense of observation, but that alone would not have caused such a disruptive feeling to arise. No, it was the fact that despite John Watson's great strength in the face of his brother's death, he hadn't been able to bring himself to touch any of Sherlock's things. 

Mycroft understood the need to move, and he could empathise with John's need to leave most of his belongings behind. But to not ever, not even accidentally, move a single thing of his brother's in this room, where John had gone many a time to mourn and cry and write? To never once pick up something of Sherlock's, or look through his things, or even pack a few things up? Mycroft raised a hand to his mouth and stifled a sob. The room was a shrine, he realised, a shrine for his brother. It was a place where John had gone to worship and pray and mourn all at once.

It was a crypt.

Mycroft stood there, in the doorway of the bedroom, his pain a crashing wave that finally broke through the silence. He let himself, on this day, mourn for the brother he knew was still alive. He mourned for the little boy who had grown up too fast, who had had to make so many hard decisions. And when he was finished mourning, Mycroft took the final step that would lead him into the room, finally disrupting the dust, the absolute Sherlock-ness. He watched the dust swirl and settle in new places, and knew that even though he had yet to touch any of Sherlock's things, he had made his presence known. He moved towards the wooden box, examining it with his eyes carefully before flipping up the lid and pulling the rolled up letter out. He knew what it was; that much was obvious. He recognized the paper as that from his own personal stock (Sherlock had obviously stolen it on one of his infrequent visits) and deduced the ribbon to be from an old hat. He carefully undid the ribbon and unrolled the letter, eyes scanning the words quickly.

_I also know that you blame Mycroft. And though he did give Moriarty pertinent information_   
_about me, he was only doing as I bid him too. I know you won't understand, and I can't_   
_explain it all to you here, but please know that it was no more his fault than it was yours._

Mycroft froze. He read over that part again, and suddenly he felt his dark emotions lift off and dissolve; if Sherlock was of the opinion that Mycroft was as blameless as John Watson, then they had come farther in their brotherhood than he had thought. Never had Mycroft dreamed of such a thing (alright, he may have _dreamed_ it) and yet it was possibly the one thing he wanted most in the world. He longed for his brother to be safe and happy, yes, but he also knew that, although possibly selfish of him, he wanted to be close to Sherlock even more. That the letter insinuated all three were possible seemed to Mycroft a miracle.

He rolled and tied the letter back up, placed it in the box gently, and closed the wooden lid. When he straightened up, the room seemed less like a crypt than before. Instead, it felt like it was merely awaiting the return of its occupant. Mycroft smiled a rare smile and just as silently as he entered, exited the room, the flat, and the building. Closing the door of 221b behind him, Mycroft's phone buzzed in his waistcoat pocket. 

_Safe. Nearly done. Stop mourning, I'll be home soon._   
                                                                              
                                                                             SH

Mycroft read the text and his smile returned. "Welcome back, little brother," he said with a hint of irony, tucking his phone back into his waistcoat. "Welcome back." The faint trace of a smile still on his face, Mycroft casually straightened the door knocker, opened his umbrella and walked away.


End file.
